


The Daddy-Hypothesis

by SparksOfDesire



Series: Little!John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Caregiver!Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Embarrassment, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Canon Compliant, Reading Aloud, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, conflicted feelings, daddy!sherlock, little!john, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 05:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16591790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksOfDesire/pseuds/SparksOfDesire
Summary: Sherlock's pretty sure that he figured out what John needs from him.But a hypothesis, as long as it's not confirmed, is nothing more than a hypothesis.***Starts right where the previous part of the series has left off.Don't like age-play, don't read; no hard feelings!





	The Daddy-Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> We're heading towards age-play with big strides, y'all <3 (also, there is the briefest mention of smut; blink and you'll miss it.)

The next couple of days were draining. As expected, John had been horribly embarrassed the morning after he had his little accident, so much so that he avoided speaking to Sherlock altogether for two whole days.

The detective thought he was overreacting spectacularly and that’s saying a lot coming from a Holmes.

While John gave him the silent treatment, Sherlock went online to do some research about the foreign feelings he had been harboring while taking care of his friend that night. What he found was a lot of disturbing things he wanted to _scrape_ from his hard-drive the moment he saw them and a handful of useful information. Nothing overly detailed, though, (to be fair, maybe he could have phrased his search better than “bed-wetting” and “taking care of your friend after bed-wetting”) so he figured they would have to figure it out as they went along. It was a modus operandi he didn’t favor in the least, but there was little else to do besides it at this point.

Sherlock was pretty sure that John wanted _something_ he could (hopefully) give him; but as long as John didn’t ask for it, he couldn’t be certain. This was a scenario very unlikely in the near future, considering John didn’t even talk to him at the present moment.

But he was a genius, after all. (A genius who was going _insane_ over the puzzle that was John Watson. He just couldn’t do nothing. He was pretty sure he’d combust.)

 

The very same day, John engaged him in light conversation about Indian take-out. Sherlock felt a lot more relived than he let on; since he silently feared that the incident might have destroyed the fragile bond between them he tried to rebuild. Yet, something was slightly off- John was stealing glances at him now and again when he thought the detective wasn’t looking (he always was), before turning his head away, hiding his reddening cheeks in his own collar. Sherlock found it equal parts endearing and frustrating. John always had been impossible to read, but he had gotten better as he had learned to know (and, as he now admitted to himself in the safety of his own head, love) the army doctor. Everything was trial and error at this point. A waiting game until John just opened up about the curious things going on in his head.

 

Three days later, after a case (a 6 at best, but Sherlock had gotten itchy and desperate with the lack of mental stimulation), John crowded him against the living-room wall and kissed him (sweet, and then-upon realizing that his administrations weren’t met with resistance- more insistent, more dominating, until Sherlock’s knees buckled, upon which John had fucking _carried_ him over to the sofa and they engaged in a heated make-out session, until Sherlock honest to God came, like the virgin he wasn’t but everyone assumed he was. John’s kisses were _exquisite_. The memory deserved a special place in his mind-palace.)

 

Sherlock thought after that he had figured it out, the reason why John had been behaving so peculiar.

Two days later, he realized that no, that wasn’t exactly it, there was still _something other_ slightly different about his friend turn boyfriend (a title that gave Sherlock immense satisfaction to think about. He hadn’t been overly interested in relationships since his early twenties, but John was everything one could desire in a partner and more, so he was proud to say that John was the exception to his ‘relationships are a nuisance’-approach).

 

Additionally, there was this thing about the reading. Sherlock didn’t even think about introducing it as a reoccurring ritual, he just happened (as he tried to feed his ravenous mind more information) to read quite a lot, about a lot of different things. And he liked reading in the evenings, considering the atmosphere was the most peaceful then; John was home from the surgery, the room still smelled faintly of dinner, the telly was providing comfortable background noise. Sherlock liked the coziness of it all, the ability to shut the world out and his mind up for some blissful minutes of comradice with his favorite person.

 

Not even a week into their relationship, there was a shift in the air. John had been watching him the moment he stretched out with tablet in hand, ready to educate himself. It was hard to concentrate when he felt the gaze of his partner on him, filled with something that he couldn’t quite place. Finally, the inner debate the doctor was obviously having settled, when he gently nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own.

“What you’re reading there, anyway?”

 

Sherlock looked up, ready to crook an eyebrow at this strange question (John had made it very clear around four months into their time as flat mates, that we wasn’t interested whatsoever in all the different things Sherlock filed away in his mind palace), but stopped when he saw a little something sparkle in John’s eyes. He recognized it instantly from the night they never talked about and _something_ about John’s whole demander radiated a certain vulnerability that was so foreign in his otherwise so dominant partner. He softened the scold that had formed on his face.

 

“It’s an article about octopi. They’re incredibly intelligent and simply fascinating creatures.”

“What are you reading about sea creatures for?” John asked, but the intended tease did nothing to mask the tone of interest and… _something_ in his voice.

 

Sherlock just shrugged and smiled; something about John being like this just warmed him all over and he had to smile, even though there was no good reason for it.

“Who knows, maybe it might come in handy for a bizarre case under the sea. Or maybe I’m getting myself a pet octopus.”

“To keep in the bathtub, I presume?”

“Precisely, my dear Watson.”

 

John rolled his eyes playfully, muttering “Utter madman” under his breath. He focused his attention back to the telly, but Sherlock felt the slight tension radiating off him, like he was itching for something but didn’t have the nerve to ask. A something that probably was part of the bigger _something_ between them, which was strange and familiar at the same time.

 

Sherlock listened to John fidget and fight with himself for another five minutes or so, until he decided to throw the doctor a bone, to see where it would lead:

“Ah! Now see, here it says: ‘Of all the invertebrates—animals that lack a backbone—octopuses are the ones that seem the most like us. In part, it’s the way they return your gaze, as if they’re scrutinizing you. In part, it’s their dexterity. Their eight arms are lined with hundreds of suckers; this allows them to manipulate objects, whether it’s to open clamshells, dismantle the filtration system of an aquarium tank, or unscrew lids from jars.’ Fascinating.”

 

Sherlock catalogued his partner’s reaction carefully and was pleasantly surprised with the outcome: Instead of dismissing the information, John’s eyes shone with bright, almost child-like interest and he seemed to be happy to have it read to him out loud. Thinking back to the night-that-shall-not-be-named, Sherlock remembered that John reacted very well to being read to.

Although he wasn’t in need of comfort like last time, the detective was satisfied with being able to offer something that his partner enjoyed.

 

“What else does it say?” John asked and then stopped himself, clearly embarrassed about his sudden outburst. Sherlock’s heart swelled with affection as he watched his partner lower his head to hide the flaming blush covering his cheeks. It wasn’t usual for John to be shy- then again, nothing in that moment was very usual for the both of them, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. Now that was John asking for something- in that special tone of voice- Sherlock wouldn’t dream of disobeying to John’s any wish. Especially if it was sweet and innocent like the silent question to be read to some more.

Instead of answering directly, Sherlock shuffled higher up on the couch, creating room between his legs for John to fit right in between.

“Come here.”

The request was the same at it had been that night and Sherlock felt the same profound emotion when John shuffled over, leaning comfortably against his stomach. In this position, it would have been easy for John to just read the article along by himself in silence, but Sherlock just continued to read it to him, his voice a soft, warm timbre between them.

Not even five minutes in, John shuffled again, this time turning slightly and scooting further down, until his face was comfortably pressed against the small swell of Sherlock’s stomach, while his head rested on one of the detective’s strong thighs. John was a comfortable weight against him, nimble fingers toying idly with the hem of his blue robe, warm breath gathering against his abdomen.

The pose could be easily imagined in a sexual scenario, yet here it just… wasn’t. Not sexual. Not even romantic, necessarily. Just, something else.

Sherlock decided that he could worry about the definitions some other time.

 

 

They hadn’t been sharing a bed before. Sherlock found it difficult to breach the subject, considering he was the one with the off sleep-schedule, that surely didn’t match well with some expectations one might have when sleeping with your partner. Although, he would admit, the few hours of sleep he did get since they became a couple, he wished he had shared with John. But he just wasn’t good with conversations like that, so he let it slide, figuring it would evolve organically eventually. It looked like he was right, yet again. Because after the very first of their reading sessions, it was like a switch had been flipped.

Sherlock wondered if John had been embarrassed about sharing a bed before because of his accident (which they did not talk about, ever) but whatever the reading did to him, it was beneficial. At the very same night (fortunately, a night Sherlock decided to sleep), John came into his room a little after midnight, huddling into the covers, holding Sherlock in a warm embrace (one that was so tender and intimate, that Sherlock finally understood what the deal of this whole cuddling business was. With John’s strong arms around his waist and his belly a comforting weight against his back; with John’s breath in his neck and his heartbeat against his shoulder blades; Sherlock admitted to himself that he could get used to this, that he would sleep more often if that was what sleeping entailed). After waking up to a well-rested John Watson beaming at him first thing in the morning, Sherlock decided they would read (and cuddle!) every night if that was what it took to make John more happy than he had seen him in a very, very long time (and then, he would kiss John to hide his own smile, because a happy John was all he needed to be giddy all day).

 

So, they kept reading. And they kept sharing a bed. It was so cozy, that Sherlock almost forgot all about the accident, or the _something_ he was trying to solve. He enjoyed the reading too much to question its existence or John’s behavior when they shared these moments. He enjoyed that his partner seemed to be openly curious, and so much _softer_ than in their usual interactions (He knew John trusted him again; they talked about everything and it had been painful and cleansing and Sherlock was so grateful for the second chance John was offering him; so grateful that John started to be himself again around him; so grateful for the soft whispers in the middle of the night; grateful for the way John loved him, with his body and his words and his actions. He was grateful for John.).

 

Then, a case came along. The first real case since they started dating, and it was a big one, too- a 8 or 9, even.

It took Sherlock ten days to solve it.

He was fairly sure that he could have managed in half the time, if he hadn’t been so distracted. But he was.

Something had happened between them, three days into the case, and it wouldn’t leave Sherlock alone. It refused to be pushed to the back of his mind, so it hindered his thought-process regarding the case (it wasn’t a big deal, per se. The case revolved around art theft, not murder, so no lives were on the line. Still, Sherlock just _knew_ he could have had solved it more quickly).

 

They were sitting by the fire at Baker Street, well after midnight, searching through police reports and witness’ interviews. Sherlock knew John had the early shift, because Sherlock persuaded him to not call in sick, because Sherlock knew that his partner took his job as a doctor seriously (Because Sherlock tried, with all of his might, to be the best possible boyfriend that he could be, while still being the genius consulting detective he was). 

So, Sherlock also knew that John should be in bed already.

But he wasn’t- loving, helpful, caring John Watson wouldn’t let his partner sort through the mountains of paperwork by himself.

However, said loving, helpful, caring John Watson was fighting sleep and loosing the battle, movements sluggish and slow, exhaustion written all over his face. Yet, he soldiered on, dutifully reading file after file, making small remarks to Sherlock now and again. Another half an hour, and he couldn’t even keep his eyes open.

Sherlock made the executive decision to send his (grown-up) partner (who was perfectly capable of looking after himself) to bed. Usually, it was the other way around.

 

“John? I’ll finish here. Get some sleep.”

“Fine, Daddy.”

 

Prepared to be met with some kind of resistance (since John was incredibly stubborn), the statement threw Sherlock completely off guard, in more ways than one. It was a curious feeling being surprised. He wasn’t very used to it, he usually could read people well, at least to some extent. This, however, this was new. _Daddy_. Something clicked into place in his mind.

 

“Sorry?” He had to make sure.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. You’re right. I’m knackered.”

Unaware of the title. A slip of the tongue, due to tiredness, perhaps? But these required a specific reason; and his name was not even close to ‘Daddy’ phonetically, nor were there any external stimuli causing the address. Thus, it was much more probable that the word had been existing in association with him in John’s mind, and he was disclosing it due to a lowered verbal inhibition. While on the outside his mind was kicking into overdrive, Sherlock appeared nonchalant. He registered vaguely that John sighed and did lean over to give him a peck on the corner of his lips.

 

“I presume I’ll see you in the morning?”

Sherlock snapped out of his mind long enough to focus on the sort of hopeful but more dejected expression on his partner’s face. John already knew the answer. Still, perhaps he hoped for a different one.

“Precisely.”

The detective didn’t miss the disappointment that creeped into his partner’s face for a split second, before he put on a blank expression.

“Thought so,” he mumbled and stood up, regarding his partner with an air of finality. Waiting for something, perhaps. Sherlock wasn’t sure. His mind was already miles away.

After another minute, John left without a word.

Sherlock inconveniently remembered at that very moment, that they hadn’t been reading for the last three days. Something akin to dread settled in his heart.

 

 

The case had been solved, eventually, even with Sherlock being distracted. However, he was slightly mad at himself for taking so long and- in the process- neglecting his duties he presumed he had as a partner. Yet, he had been taking to long because the desires of his partner were confusing to him and- the very train of thought made his head hurt.

The thing was, he still wasn’t sure what John wanted out of this, ultimately.

He had a pretty good idea about it, but a hypothesis as long as it’s not confirmed is nothing more than exactly that- a hypothesis.

He was more than willing to give what he thought John desired- he found it sweet in that wholesome kind of way that warmed you from the inside and out (something, he had been completely unfamiliar with before he had met John all those years ago)- but he wasn’t sure if it was his place to offer. On the other hand, he had initiated the reading sessions, and that was working fairly well.

By the thought of reading, his heart made a happy leap, as he mounted the cab that would take him from Scotland Yard back home. In a heat of the moment decision, he asked the driver to drop him off at a Waterstones not too far from Baker Street, where he acquired a book of short stories, figuring John might enjoy a bit of fiction for a change, instead of the scientific articles.

The buy made him embarrassingly confident, he was eager to prove that he was a thoughtful partner after all (Insecurity, another concept he hadn’t been familiar with until John hobbled into his life).

 

Sherlock had spent the last two days mostly at Scotland Yard, while John had been working and at home. When he returned late at night, John was already asleep (he presumed, the door to his bedroom had been closed, he didn’t wish to disturb his boyfriend’s slumber) and, in the mornings, Sherlock was out of the door as soon as the sun came up. Consequently, they hadn’t really seen each other in the last 60-65 hours.

Sherlock bolted into the living room, still riding on his post-case high.

The atmosphere however, made him stop in his tracks. Something was off. More specifically, John was off. Usually after a solve, John would listen to him ramble while he had dinner ready, ushering his detective to catch up on the missed nutrition, with a smile on his face (Sherlock hated to admit that he became kind of dependent on this kind of doting and that he secretly looked forward to it).

There was no dinner ready.

There was also no smile.

 

Instead, John was sitting in his chair, not looking at Sherlock and instead appeared to be busy on his laptop. Sherlock watched him, quickly taking in the most important facts. John was tense. Agitated, restless. He hadn’t been sleeping very well. He was rubbing the jumper at the place where Sherlock knew the exit wound scarred the skin.

Tentatively, the detective took a step in John’s direction.

“Hello John,” he spoke quietly, all the excitement momentarily forgotten. Instead, the adrenalin still cursing through his veins heightened the worry he felt because John wasn’t even looking at him.

“The case is over. I’m home.”

“I can see that,” came the brisk reply.

Sherlock squared his jaw. He hated to state the obvious himself, but he didn’t know how else to start the conversation.

 

Deciding that maybe actions would be favored to words, he bowed down a bit, to place a kiss against his partner’s temple, but John jerked his head away.

Dumbfounded, the detective stared at the back of his partner’s head (who was still not looking at him), trying to fight down the hurt at his affections not being welcomed.

They hadn’t been fighting since they started dating. Sherlock wondered vaguely if John wanted to initiate a fight with his actions.

That would be absolutely dreadful, because he came completely unprepared about the proper ways to argue with a loved one. He could be hurtful and cold, and he didn’t want to be that towards John, not ever again.

But he was getting a bit annoyed himself, truth be told.

It hadn’t been his fault (technically) that the case had taken so long and John knew he and The Work were a packaged deal. John never seemed to have a problem with that before.

 

He straightened and took some steps back, to create some room between them.

“Alright, then. Dinner?”

“Why don’t you feed yourself for fucking once?”

 “Not what I meant but noted.”

The detective picked up a couple of flyers from their favorite take-out places, pretending to scan them to get his rising tempter under control. He hadn’t even taken his coat off and John was already giving him attitude. He flexed his fingers at his side and brushed the book that was safely tucked away in his coat pocket. Some of his anger cooled off instantly, as he remembered the reason why he bought it in the first place.

 

He changed his approach. He shook off his coat, threw it over a kitchen chair, and sat down on the armrest of John’s chair (which the doctor accepted, but didn’t make a move to initiate more contact).

“We could have something delivered from Angelo’s tonight. Something hearty and rich, with wine and tiramisu. How’s that sound? Or would you prefer something else?”

It was foreign for him to talk John into food, but he was itching to turn this evening around to something more positive, like cuddles, and sex, and sleeping in the same bed.

 

The reaction however, wasn’t the one he wanted to invoke.

“Look, Sherlock, can’t you just leave me alone? You’ve been really great at that the last couple of days, after all.”

Okay, now that was just… he wasn’t supposed to just let himself be snapped at like that, was he?

“I was busy.”

“What a coincidence, I’m busy right now!”

“No, you’re not. You’re just browsing aimlessly. And contradicting me out of spite.”

John closed the laptop with more force than necessary and sprang out of his chair, like he was either readying himself to fight Sherlock or to bolt out of the living room. The detective wasn’t sure which he’d prefer at this point.

 

“Right, I forgot, you know everything about everybody and you never, ever, shut up about it!”

Something wasn’t… right the way John was fighting him. Like his heart wasn’t really in it. Like he wasn’t really… mad, not mad at Sherlock, at least. He hated that he knew very well how John behaved when that was the case. This however was almost…. Childish?

“John, what’s all this about?”

“It’s about nothing, if you would just leave me the fuck alone, I don’t need you coming back here acting all nice-”

“I was under the impression that you and I would benefit from some quality time together, since we spent so much time apart.”

“Since when do you know anything about relationships, Sherlock?! “

 

The detective faltered a bit. Because, even though John was just lashing out to hurt him at this point, he really hit a sore spot.

Sherlock didn’t really know all that much about relationships.

But he tried.

John disrespecting his efforts hurt almost as much as the rejection of the kiss earlier.

 

The doctor, despite the mood he had worked himself into, must have realized that, too, for the first time since Sherlock entered 221 B Baker Street, he looked at him, just for fraction of a second.

That second told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

It was in his partner’s eyes, really.

They were so _young_.

He took in the form of his partner silently, letting his eyes roam over the tense shoulders, and the back that was turned on him, the heaving chest, the color of these well-hidden cheeks, the fight and vulnerability on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. John looked utterly exhausted. John looked like he needed… comfort.

The comfort only Sherlock knew how to give, the comfort that came with this _something_ between them that had been keeping his mind occupied for the past week.

 

“Forget it,” John scoffed, voice no longer heated but filled with an ashamed edge. “You don’t understand anything. I’m going out.”

When he went to move, Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist.

Gently, so that John was able to leave if he really wished to do so; but firm enough to ground John in this moment between them.

“John,” his voice, nothing but a warm rumble. It had an instant effect. John still had his back turned to him, but he stayed at the spot. Sherlock felt his doctor’s heartbeat racing against his palm. “What’s wrong?”

 

No reply. Just a small tremor, running through his back, and the sound of elevated breathing.

Sherlock felt this new, undiscovered part within himself- the part that wanted to look after John, to care for John, to make him happy- perk up, demanding to be felt, demanding to be surfaced. But they didn’t talk about it yet, because there hadn’t been any words to describe it, but now there was a word, one word- but bringing it out in the open would _change_ things. To address the _something_ meant they would be no longer able to ignore it.

It terrified Sherlock, the small possibility that he could have been _wrong_ about all of this. It was devastating to even think about it. They wouldn’t be able to swallow it, to play it down, they couldn’t ignore it like John tried to ignore the accident- oh! Maybe that, that was there, somewhere, and the reading, too, and everything that had happened between them when John’s eyes had turned soft and young.

One word.

But it was a theory, nothing more, an abundance of hypothesizes formed in the safety of his own mind, _nothing_ had been confirmed- and maybe he’d been fantasizing things, maybe it had been wishful thinking, maybe he longed for this something to be what he thought it was, maybe he was just imposing this thoughts upon his partner.

Sherlock felt slightly sick with nerves.

It would serve to confirm things, once and for all. But- then again- what if he was wrong? Would they be able to… overcome this? Or would their relationship… break?

By just one word.

Well, there’s no time like the present.

 

“John, tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

 

Sherlock held his breath- the taste of the foreign word still heavy on his tongue- and watched a full-blown shudder wash over his partner, that he even felt against his fingertips, that were still encircling the doctor’s wrist. Every muscle in John’s body seemed to become rigid, before all the tension melted away. It was a curious thing to watch, but it didn’t actually help to ease Sherlock’s anxieties.

Until John turned around, with these big, young eyes now fixed on him, shining with something Sherlock dared to call relief, and threw himself in his partner’s arms.

Sherlock was taken aback by the force of the hug but returned it as soon as he regained his footing- holding John’s body as tight as he dared, fingertips digging into the soft wool of his jumper.

The moment his face was buried safely in the crook of his partner’s- his Daddy’s?- neck, the words broke out of John like a flood; heavy, and jumbled, and unstoppable.

 

“I’m trying, I really, really am- but it’s not working all the time and I...I couldn’t sleep ‘cause I missed you, but not sleeping’s making me feel yucky and- and the longer ‘m not sleeping, the more I think about nightmares and what if… what if I have ‘nother accident and you’re not there- I’m sorry, this is so stupid, I’m so so sorry- I shouldn’t be such a baby and miss reading and cuddling but I am … and and...”

He sucked in a shuddering breath, his voice wavering somewhere between open vulnerability and crushing shame. Sherlock’s heart hammered wildly in his chest, in awe and relief and affection for the man in his arms.

 

“Don’t say that it’s stupid. It’s not. I’m glad that I can make you so happy. I’m sorry that I couldn’t balance it during the case. I’ll learn to be better at that.”

Sherlock surprised himself in these moments, but John brought out this part within him- this caring, warm, utterly _good_ part within him- a part he didn’t know existed. He’d been called a machine enough times to believe that he had to be- but John made him discover the heart that was still beating inside of him; made him feel raw and alive and _human_.

 

“You shouldn’t have to. The Work is important.”

“You’re important, too.”

The detective felt John sucking in another sharp breath, the tender words obviously having a positive effect on him. He catalogued everything he could, filing it away in his mind-palace to the ever-growing wing dedicated solely to John’s well-being.

 

The doctor’s breath was warm and wet against his skin. “I’m sorry that I was so mean to you. ‘twasn’t your fault, I was angry at myself and the situation and those stupid…feelings.”

 John’s voice was strange, yet familiar, filled with _something_. Filled with everything.

 

“Stop calling them stupid already, they’re not. They’re sweet. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be… taken care of.”

The choice of words had been deliberate, inching slowly but surely towards this thing between them that had been there ever since John had had his accident. The waiting game was over. Trial and error. _A hypothesis is just a hypothesis until it’s confirmed_.

 

“You want me to take care of you sometimes, right?”

The world narrowed down to this moment between them, all of Sherlock’s focus on John and him, on this bubble around them, on these feelings… these new, and intimate, and wonderful feelings. A wave of a strong emotion washed over the detective, and he buried his face in his partner’s hair, letting the familiar smell calm down his racing heart.

The nod was so tiny it could have been easily missed, but Sherlock felt it clear and strong and final against his chin.

A heavy weight lifted itself off his mind. Now, he was seeing clear again.

 

“Sherlock, I’m feeling so strange right now,” John whined, low against his partner’s neck. 

The detective frowned at the use of his first name, but John’s fidgeting in his embrace suggested that his partner was still battling with his desires. Sherlock made a mental note to do more research, now that he had some actual terms at his hands.

 

“Like what, love?” John was shuddering at the nickname, since Sherlock didn’t usually use nicknames.

“Small” Everything else clicked into place. “But I shouldn’t… I’m an adult. ‘m not… small.”

At this, Sherlock pulled John’s face from its safe hiding spot against his neck and peppered the distressed expression with long, and loving kisses.

“You can be small, if you want to be small. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. You don’t have to hide it. Not from me.”

 _‘I’ll love you, regardless. I’ll love you, always.’_ These words, although vivid and strong in his mind, didn’t leave his lips. He feared that their finality, their truth, their vulnerability and strength would be too much for the given time. But he tried to pour everything he felt into his next words:

 “Just let go, John. I’m right here. Daddy’s right here.”

 

And John looked at him like he’d see the whole world in Sherlock’s eyes and he _smiled_ \- shy, and bright, and beautiful. Sherlock pressed his thumb against the upturned corner of his doctor’s lips affectionately. Everything felt so sweet and soft between them.

“Are we good? For now?” Sherlock prided himself to be a genius, he knew that this conversation was not even close to being over. But there was a time for discussions and there was a time for just doing what felt _right_.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Sherlock’s heart leaped when he heard the title muttered in this gentle voice he quickly started to love. He probably should be fighting growing so attached to yet another part of John, but he was a lost cause. He fell in love with John a little bit more every day.

 

“Now, why don’t we settle down on the couch and you’ll tell me what we should order from Angelo’s, yes?” Sherlock felt a spark of victory when John relaxed completely in his arms, melting against him.

“Can we still get tiramisu?”

Sherlock laughed short and happy, ruffling John’s hair. Being able to give John what he needed (and what he himself needed, too) was the most gratifying feeling in the world. Sherlock felt that he wouldn’t be able to stop smiling even if he tried. He was utterly gone on John Watson.

And he didn’t even mind.

“Sure, love. Whatever you want.”

 

Later that evening, when both were sprawled on the couch- their bellies heavy with food and their moods relaxed and satiated- Sherlock remembered the present that he got especially for moments like these.

John was _delighted_ by it. ‘It’s nice to see him like this,’ Sherlock thought while he opened the book to start reading, ‘wearing his emotions on his face, unguarded. Trusting me with them, trusting me with all of himself.’

The little doctor was so enthralled by the curious story-worlds that he didn’t even mention the topic of nightmares or accidents again, as he curled in Sherlock’s waiting arms; out like a light as soon as Sherlock wrapped him up in a secure embrace.

Sleep’s insistently pulling Sherlock under as well, but he was resisting it for a couple more minutes, in favor of looking down at the sleeping figure of his boyfriend.

Nobody knew what the future would bring.

But it didn’t really bother him all that much, not anymore.

Not as long as John would remain right here, in his arms. In his life. In his heart.

 

And Sherlock drifted off with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone's interested in the article Sherlock's reading: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2016/11/octopus-anatomy-cephalopod-disguise-evolution/  
> Learning's fun, friends!
> 
> ***
> 
> I hope you loved reading this as much as I loved writing it. Next story is already well on its way in my head, so stay tuned for more.  
> For the next chapter, I thought of introducing Greg as a side-character (because I LOVE Greg, he's such a good friend to John AND Sherlock), would you guys be into that?
> 
> And tell me how you're feeling about this through comments, kudos, and bookmarks. Feedback fuels me!
> 
> Take care, you lovely people <3


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